1. One

One

November 1811 London

“ D arcy, for Mercy’s sake, when was the last time you smiled at something that wasn’t an income ledger?”

Bingley was pacing again. Restless, no doubt. He had been like this for weeks now, fidgeting in meetings, sighing loudly over reports, and coming up with endless excuses to get away from his desk. Darcy found it mildly irritating, though he could hardly blame the man. Bingley had never been one for details, for the daily grind of keeping their empire running smoothly. He was explosions of brilliance, barely contained in his mortal coil—indeed, Bingley was the sort of man who left Darcy in awe of his energy and inspiration at times.

But at other times, it felt like he was trapped in a room with a moonstruck cat that was forever climbing the drapes and shredding the furniture.

Darcy glanced down at the report in front of him—a promising shipping forecast from Calais—pretending not to hear the question. Numbers, figures, logistics. These things made sense. They had always made sense. He was good at them.

Bingley had the instincts, the charm, the wild ideas that somehow—against all odds—worked. But it was Darcy who made it all run, who ensured they never missed a payment or a shipment, who turned Bingley’s flights of fancy into something tangible, something profitable. Into the monster that was DarBing Enterprises—a name Darcy had mocked mercilessly until the business proved worthy.

“I smile,” he said, keeping his voice even as his quill scratched across the paper. “Occasionally.”

Bingley made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a groan. “Ah, yes. You save those rare grins for particularly favorable shipping manifests. But even then, it’s more of a grimace, if I’m being honest.”

Darcy ignored him, flipping the page. They were seeing exponential growth from the new venture in India. That was satisfying, surely. But when he glanced up, Bingley had slumped into the chair across from him, looking for all the world as though he were down to his last penny without a friend in the world.

“We’ve built half of London’s trade on our backs. You realize that, don’t you?” Bingley said suddenly. “Grown this little empire of ours tenfold. Why, even the East India Company is feeling a bit threatened. All because I somehow guilted you into those beeswax candles. Which, I remind you, you thought was madness.”

Darcy did not respond. He had thought it was madness, of course—at the time. The idea of smuggling French beeswax during a war seemed not only unseemly but unsustainable. And yet here they were, nearly a decade later, their fortune secured many times over, turning on the lynchpin of that bizarre, brilliant idea of Bingley’s.

“I’m tired,” Bingley said. “Are you not?”

“Then go home.”

“Not that sort of tired. I need a change of scenery, Darcy! I’m tired of seeing only your infuriatingly perfect face across the desk from me. I’m tired of sorting all the invitations we receive by which ones will result in meeting profitable contacts. I’m tired of not even remembering what my sister’s new husband’s name is.”

“He is not worth remembering.”

“My point , Darcy, is that we don’t live at all! We’ve all this money, success beyond even my wildest imagination—and you know exactly how wild that is—”

“Indubitably.”

“And tell me, when was the last time that you enjoyed anything? ”

Darcy paused his writing. “Just last week I enjoyed seeing that shipment arrive from Lisbon.”

“There, you have proved my point! All the things you call enjoyment are to do with work! I say, tell me the last time you enjoyed the company of a lady, and if it was within the last year, I will eat my hat.”

“I took tea with Georgiana last Friday.” Darcy looked up. “Would you like some salt or perhaps a fine Hollandaise sauce to go with that beaver? We also have some excellent French Wine downstairs.”

“Your sister does not count. I mean a real female. Egad, man, don’t you have an estate for which you are meant to provide an heir? I don’t know if your father ever told you this, but sons need mothers, and before a woman can become a mother, she must—”

“All in good time.” The quill scratched against the page in a steady rhythm. “I will attend to that when we’ve perfected our position. The new numbers we had last quarter show a faint stagnation. If we do not capitalize on our latest opportunities, the business suffers. You know that.”

“More growth,” Bingley muttered. “More investments. More ‘perfection.’” He sat up, leaning toward Darcy with an exasperated, almost conspiratorial grin. “When is it enough, Darcy? We’ve made our fortune a thousand times over, and yet—” He waved a hand, exasperated. “Here you are, chained to that desk as if it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”

Darcy didn’t flinch. He kept his gaze on the numbers, on the precise, predictable columns of figures that laid out their success like a blueprint. “And where would you have me, Bingley? Pemberley?”

The word tasted faintly of dust, of something long abandoned. He had not set foot on Pemberley’s grounds in more than a year. There was no time to waste on wool and wheat—not when his steward could manage just as well. This was where his talents shone. This was where he was needed.

“Yes!” Bingley slapped his hand on the desk, rattling a few of the carefully organized papers. Darcy looked up, more in surprise than irritation. “Pemberley! That’s exactly where I’d have you. I’d have you on horseback, striding through the moors, or—better yet—lounging in a grand library with a book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. You’ve forgot how to rest, Darcy.”

Rest? The thought was almost laughable. Rest was for men who had finished their work, men who had reached their limit. But Darcy, as far as he could see, was nowhere near his. There was still more . Always more.

“Pemberley,” Darcy repeated, his voice steady but faintly amused. “You make it sound like I am one foot in the grave already.”

“You might as well be. You live like an old man who’s decided that the only excitement left in life is—what?—balancing the books and managing shipments? Face it, Darcy, you haven’t set foot in the country in years. And it shows. Look at you! Egad, you are nearly translucent.”

Darcy flicked an eyebrow upward. “I wasn’t aware that my pallor was of such concern.”

“It’s not the pallor,” Bingley shot back, waving a hand in dismissal. “It’s the soullessness.” He gestured dramatically to the neat stacks of ledgers, the orderly maps of trade routes pinned on the walls. “You’re drowning in this. And don’t tell me you love it, because I know you, Darcy. You endure it. You thrive in it because it’s predictable, and you can control it. But don’t pretend you find joy in it.”

Darcy leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. His mouth twitched, just a hint, like he might be considering a smile but had not quite committed. “The world does not turn on charm and hunches, Bingley. I’ve other ambitions, and this is a means to achieving them.”

“Ah, yes! It is not enough for you to kill yourself over a desk full of shipping manifests and profit forecasts. You must find new ways to do it in the halls of Westminster.”

“You yourself thought it a capital idea,” Darcy reminded him. “In fact, it was you who suggested it, just like every other hare-brained scheme I’ve found myself considering these last several years.”

“That was before I realized I had created a monster,” Bingley fired back. “And what do you mean, ‘hare-brained scheme’? I should say you have ample evidence that my instincts are sound.”

Darcy gave a small shake of his head. “I never said they were not. I simply—”

“No, no, no!” Bingley held up a hand, feigning horror. “Let’s not walk back now. You’ve made it clear from the start. You thought the candles were absurd. You thought the wines were too risky. The silk trade, you swore, was pure madness. I distinctly remember the word ‘madness,’ Darcy.”

“Yes, and you were fortunate enough to be right in all three instances. Somehow.” Darcy’s tone was dry, but the fondness beneath it was undeniable. He had never quite understood how Bingley managed to be so consistently lucky, so impossibly optimistic, and… so irritatingly correct.

Bingley grinned, looking as though he might bask in Darcy’s reluctant praise. But the grin faltered as he stood and began pacing again, running a hand through his unruly blond hair. “That’s exactly the problem! Don’t you see? We’ve done it, Darcy. We’ve made our fortune. We’ve proved everyone wrong a thousand times over. Now, we should be enjoying it.”

“Enjoying it how, exactly?” Darcy arched an eyebrow, watching Bingley’s restless movements. “By… retreating to the country? Wasting away in idle conversation and bad brandy?”

“Wasting away?” Bingley laughed, though it was a bit sharper than usual. “Darcy, you make it sound as though taking a breath of fresh air might kill you. Yes, retreating to the country! Relaxing. Letting the world turn without us needing to crank its wheels and spindles for once. Buying a house, for Heaven’s sake.”

“Buying a house? I already own a perfectly sumptuous house, and so do you.”

“In the city.” Bingley’s frustration cracked through now, his hands gesturing wildly again as he paced. “I’m talking about a house in the country , Darcy. Where things are green, remember? Fresh air, quiet—”

“I have one of those as well.”

“Yes, a four-day drive from London. But since I can hardly get you out of Mayfair, except to go to St. James’ or Pall Mall, what is the use of even saying you own the house?”

“Well, Pemberley itself brings in a rather tidy income…”

“Darcy!” Bingley laughed. “You are intentionally missing my point!”

Darcy put his quill away with a sigh. No point in trying to finish this now. “What would you have me do, Bingley?”

Bingley was pacing by now, his hands braced at his waist as he cast occasional glances at Darcy on his course across the room. “I want you to dip into that thing called ‘living’ once in a while. I want you to go… I don’t know… shoot a brace of geese yourself and put them on your own table for a change. I want you to take a few fences, or gallop until your hat flies off your head on some of those valuable hunters you prize in your stables but have never seen. I want you to take your sister to a play or an opera where you are not trying to find an opportunity to make a business or a political connection.”

Darcy scoffed. “Do not be naive. You know perfectly well I was only trying to be friendly to Lords Hastings and Meriwether.”

“Hah! I jolly well know no such thing! You ascribe pounds and pence to every conversation. I have seen the ledger, Darcy.”

“What, ledger? It is merely my notes, which have proved useful more than—”

“And what about ladies? What about marriage and a family of your own?”

Darcy blinked. Then swallowed. “I told you. All in—”

“The ‘good time’ is now, Darcy. Not when you are fifty. Egad, man, you were already five years old by the time your father was the age you are now! Look here. It is already November. You and I are full up of invitations to balls, soirées, Assemblies. I say we accept at least half of them.”

“Why?”

“Because, Darcy, I want you out of my hair!”

Darcy frowned and glanced speculatively at the wall behind Bingley. “Well, you could have said…”

“I have said. Find a woman, Darcy. Find a hobby. Gad’s teeth, run for office if it will keep you busy and get you out of here for a change!”

“Ah, so that is your motive. You are not seeking to make me ‘happy,’ as you claim. You want to be rid of me?”

Bingley went quiet, still pacing.

Darcy shifted in his chair. “Interesting. You do want to be rid of me.”

“No, no! But… Darcy, for more than eight years, we’ve done nothing but work. I live like an old man. I’ve no friends who are not also business partners, I spend so much time at my desk that I am winded when I take the stairs to my own room, and I was trying to remember the last time I danced at a ball. Take a guess, Darcy.”

“Two years, one month, and four days ago,” Darcy answered flatly. “Lady Hansen’s ball. Look, Bingley, if you are so tired of work, take a holiday. Go to the country yourself.”

“Aha, as if I could! No, Darcy, I know exactly what will come of that. An urgent summons will find me the moment I’ve tried to start anything new, and I’ll achieve nothing but wasted time and frustration. There is absolutely no point in me trying to do anything or go anywhere unless you are diverted elsewhere. That is why…” Bingley cleared his throat and turned around. “I have already accepted those invitations.”

Darcy narrowed his eyes. “Which invitations?”

“All… all of them. We will have a merry time this winter, Darcy. We shall meet ladies and dance and smoke cigars with our friends—real friends, Darcy! I mean to go skating in Hyde Park and—”

“Bingley,” Darcy interrupted. “I have no intention of prancing about like a fool. You want to attend four parties each evening and drink wassail and eat fig pudding until it comes out your eyeballs, you are welcome to do it alone.”

“No good, Darcy. You have to come with me.”

“I do not recall that as a condition in our business contract.”

“Good, because I am not talking about business.” Bingley strode closer, that insouciant grin widening on his face. “You owe me, Darcy.”

Darcy crossed his arms and quirked a brow. “Here we go again. You saved my life. Got me out of French hands, took a bayonet to the shoulder. I have not forgot.”

“Oh! How fortunate. I was worried I would have to remind you.”

Darcy scoffed and shook his head. “Why would you hold back this time? That never stopped you before, when you tried to put the screws to me for some scheme of yours.”

“And tell me when I was wrong, hmm?”

“I…”

“This evening, Darcy. Seven o’clock sharp. I shall have my carriage at your door for Lady Stanwick’s dinner party.”

Darcy squirmed in his chair. “I have my own carriage.”

Bingley was already halfway to the door, but he turned back with a bright-eyed grin. “Yes, but I want to make sure you actually get into a carriage. I will see you at seven.”